Tempête
by hyacinthian
Summary: He is change. And change doesn't stop. Not for anyone. [TenRose] Post The Girl in the Fireplace.


A/N: **Character death**. Angst. Ten/Rose. Post-The Girl in the Fireplace. Think that covers all the bases.

* * *

She stands there, feeling the dread settle over her like a cloud of winter—a breath from Jack Frost, and she knows. She just knows. She can feel it. It's a strange sort of thing—she feels the kiss even though she doesn't see it. It's heated and passionate and soft and _French_, and she wants to cry. She feels herself breaking on the inside—like a sheet of thin ice beginning to break, the tiny cracks spreading further and further until her nails are digging into her palm so hard they leave little crescent-shaped welts. 

She's shared so much with him, been with him through a regeneration, and she's not the only woman in his life anymore. She doesn't know what she was expecting. Forever? A happy ending? And now she's standing there. Not even moving. Because her brain doesn't process so quickly. Not like his dear Reinette. Mickey stands behind her, and she can feel his worry, almost like she can feel the thrumming of the TARDIS in her heart.

"Rose? You a'right?"

She doesn't say anything. She stands there. And listens to the silence of the ship, as if she'll suddenly hear the ticking of clocks, hear the passing of time. At three hours, two minutes, and fifteen seconds, her legs give out on her. Mickey helps her to sit down, knowing that's the only thing he can do to help her, and they sit there. Silence. Both of them. Helpless.

He comes back, and she doesn't know what to say, what to do. "Why her?" The thought that riddles her mind tumbles from her lips, so she qualifies it. He prattles off some answer that she knows isn't true. So she nods…and leaves.

She enters the room fifteen minutes later. And this time, she's unwilling to concede. This is the Tyler stubbornness—the streak of rebelliousness within her. But there's the same vulnerability. Because he's the Doctor. And he could just leave her back on Earth, in her own time, and make her go back to Henrik's and the telly and…mundane things. "I—I thought you were—we were—I thought I was the only girl you danced with," she mumbles. He looks up briefly, and his eyes are dark and unreadable.

"Did you?" She flinches. The air is charged with his bitterness and her uncertainty, and his words dangle there for a second. They hover there, full of anger and condescencion, in the way that makes her feel like a stupid ape again. She bites down on her lip, hard, turns on her heel, and walks away without a word. He doesn't even look up once.

The atmosphere in the TARDIS is awkward after that. She makes them tea, and he thanks her, and it's the stifling courtesy that's driving Mickey insane. They're not acting like themselves, not engaging in an hourly bicker session. They go to see the stars, and Mickey feels secluded. The Doctor prattles off history, Rose mumbles something, and he's left there. Like a child being hidden from his parents' arguments.

Things have been so boring that Mickey asks to see an intergalactic party. The Doctor laughs, but not in a kind way, and agrees. He flicks switches, asks Rose to hold this down, but don't touch that, and they arrive with a bump and a jolt and a bruise. Rose hurries off into the back to change, and emerges looking beautiful. He figures jeans and a clean t-shirt will be fine.

Rose slinks into the bar in the black dress that hugs all of her right places, her blonde curls neatly tumbling over her bare shoulders. She's prepared to drink tonight—a lot—and _dance _with another fellow of her own. She sits at the bar and orders a drink, and she knows he's seated next to her. She can smell him, but she flutters her eyelashes and focuses her attention on the man to her left. He's attractive, a slim man with a five o' clock shadow and an outfit that reeks of Indiana Jones. Still, he _is _attractive. So she talks to him.

She feels his eyes on her. They're dark and passionate and she can feel the strong emotions rolling off of him in waves. She places her hand on top of Indiana Jones, and the Doctor places a hand on her shoulder. Recoiling, she turns to face him. "What?" she asks, frustrated. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to—it's all written on his face. "You're not the first man I've danced with, and you certainly won't be the last. We don't all have to go to France to have some fun."

She turns back to Indiana Jones and starts talking to him again. He's being charming and charismatic and she leans in for a kiss. His lips are tantalizingly close, and their lips brush together in the slightest of kisses. She entwines a hand in his hair and opens her mouth simultaneously. She has to hand it to him, the man is a good kisser. The barest of touches flicks across her wrist and then, she's being drawn away. She bites down on her swollen lips, and casts him an angry gaze.

"What is wrong with you?"

"What exactly are you playing at, Rose?"

"I'm not playing at anything. Besides, we're not exclusive. If it's your rule, you should follow it." She starts to head back again, when he pulls her towards him, and kisses her. Thoroughly kisses her. He's an even better kisser than Indiana Jones. So much so that when he pulls away, she barely remembers her name. She licks her lips, and stands still for a second, eyes closed.

The next day, he tells them both to pack their bags. He's taking them home. She's angry and crying, but he won't hear anything else. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was coming. She knew she'd have to leave one day. They arrive in London in the twenty-first century, and she hates him.

He opens the door for them, and Mickey is the first one out. She turns around and looks straight into his eyes. He's set up his walls again, and she can't assess any emotion at all. She chuckles, a bitter sound, that he's not used to hearing. She picks up her suitcase, and smiles sardonically at him. "I guess the world _doesn't _end if the Doctor dances." She pauses, and walks a little. She turns back to him again. "It only ends if he dances with me." She walks out of the TARDIS and doesn't look back, though when Mickey looks at her, tears are running down her face. She tries not to listen to the familiar whirrings of the TARDIS, nor feel the pain of the absence of its subtle thrumming within her. The rhythm of the TARDIS.

She tries to learn to cope without him, but the first couple months of her life are spent in bed or at home, watching the telly, dreaming about the places she's been and the people she's seen. She sees New Earth in her dreams, and smells the apple grass again, but tries to focus on the episode of EastEnders her mother's so excited about.

She takes her A-levels, studies for them, and does well. She gets a job, moves out of her mother's flat, and makes a modest living.

She's stopped eating chips.

Sometimes, when she's alone, she broods about him. She's just another Sarah Jane. But Sarah Jane was luckier. Sarah Jane had K-9. She had a piece of him, but Rose? Rose has nothing. She has the memory of him in her mind, his clean smell, his voice, his touch. Time goes by, and she barely notices anymore.

Decades later, she's married to Dr. Stephen Greenbough. Sometimes, she reflects on why she wed a doctor. She doesn't work anymore. She just stays at home to tend to the children. One day, the doorbell rings, and she opens it to find a package sitting on the stoop. She opens it and the smell rushes out of the package. It's the TARDIS, the Doctor, all of it. She wonders what regeneration he's on now. Twelfth? She finds a note, and quickly scans the scrawled message. In the package are some of her items that she left behind. She picks up the locket, and opens it. A picture of Jack, and a picture of the Doctor. Before he regenerated. It had been a prank gift that they had all decided to get when they weren't running for their lives somewhere. She cries for the first time in years that night, clutching a silver locket in her hand.

Leaves crunch under his feet as he walks in the cemetary. His eyes are solemn and sad, and he stops by her gravestone. He sets a bouquet of flowers on top. They're from other planets, a collection of flowers he thought she would've liked from an assortment of galaxies, universes, and time periods. He runs his fingers along her name chiseled in the marble.

A breeze whistles through the trees. _I was nothing more than Sarah Jane_.

"And Sarah Jane was nothing more than you."

The wind dies as quickly as it started. All his companions were the same. He is the only constant thing in their lives, in his life.

The dead leaves crunch under his feet as he walks back to his blue police public call box. That's the only constant in his life. As the TARDIS whirs to life, and he is faced with the unbearable silence of the control room, he closes his eyes.

He _is _change.

And change doesn't stop.

Not for anyone.


End file.
